Jocasta
by Sabriel41
Summary: Tradition tells that the end of the story overtakes all that precedes it. True as that may be, this is the rest of my story. I do not ask for forgiveness. I do not want it. I only ask to be understood. [ Pronyma ]


**Jocasta**

_. o ._

I can barely tell the difference between them. Maybe it was five years ago… maybe it was five hundred, when he was brilliant and marvelous and visionary, his eyes flashing with conviction and strength. Oh, he still smiled like a boy sometimes; glowing youth personified. Immortal foolishness, more like it, and why didn't I see it sooner is anyone's guess.

I suppose I simply didn't want to until this moment… where his callous dismissal is all too clear as my own life slips through my fingers and he stands idly.

_He's_ slipping; bright wings and ivory linen give way to green eyes and a child's cowlick when he thinks no-one is watching… more so now than ever. The black mage… the Sage boy…Mithos has mumbled _his_ name in half-slumber; awake, he scorns the mage for giving his friendship and his trust so blindly, and I listen, lips twisted in scorn as he expects, but I believe my Lord's words about as far as he'll let me throw him.

Besides, I don't think he expects me to believe him… he's stolen into my quarters in his childish guise the last three nights, and shoulders that are too slight for their age shake and quiver as he refuses to cry.

I could have killed him then, lost little golden child. And I can't say I wasn't tempted to do exactly that; power is a stronger drug than lust, even love, and I've lived long enough to know it lasts longer. A hairpin, a wingtip, a dagger; it is treacherous, perhaps merciful, yet not impossible. I am his Lady, his General and he trusted me even then… but he whispers _her_ name as he trembles. So I wrap him in warm arms and metal wings with the tenderness of a mother that neither of us knew, and try not to widen his wounds, even as what remains of my heart is frozen further. He saved me once, when I was a child… I will not kill him. Not now.

Mock as you will, yet I loved him in my own way; foolish fumbling strange girl that I was, and in many ways still am. We may have grown wings, but the power we wield is still too much, our outsides brilliantly polished, our souls reeling… Small wonder we're all so broken.

For him, though… millennia ago, when my hair shone a deep cinnamon, and my skin was smooth and covered in warrior's clothes, I fought my way through his ranks after he smiled at me once, determined to stand by his side as his equal. A handful of lifetimes later, I have made it; my locks shaded green to match the blasphemous Tree I defend, as I lead his Cardinals, power-hungry fools and fallen heroes alike.

I've watched his guardians betray him and play their own games; I've played a few of my own along the way, but never to their extent. Perhaps that's the reason he stands impervious to my pleas, green eyes flashing angrily at the disgustingly smug redhead Chosen and his little friends.

_Fool_, I want to scream. _I never touched the back-stabbing, annoying little lecher._

I loved an angel, once, and he broke my heart… I may be masochistic, but I'm only willing to make a fool of myself for one at a time.

But I cannot say this. For the first time in too long, I remember what it is to be on the brink of death, and though my heart is screaming, the words on my lips are those of frantic pleas.

I am not afraid of death, I think; I stood my ground against Aurion's brat and his tagalongs better than most. I've lived for three thousand years; buried one lover, grew wings, found another only to lose him to his past and his memories; memories that I don't share, but that I can almost taste along with the blood on my lips. I _love_ him, though I know he scorns me now.

Creatures of the underworld, though we've made ourselves an artificial heaven, and we can't afford it, this love, this weakness. Thinking this; _knowing_ it doesn't make the sight of his averted face, nor the blinding nucleus of energy growing under his palm any easier.

Words die on my lips as the thought occurs to me… perhaps it _is_ true that a true friend stabs you in the front…

The tiniest smile on his face; a real one; a child-like honest-to-goodness Mithos smile is the last thing I see before he flicks his wrist dismissively and the spell wraps me in darkness.

I whisper supplication, though I know he cannot hear me now.

_Farewell_, _Mithos Yggdrasil, fare well…_

. _o_ .

_…finis…_

. _o_ .

**Disclaimer: **Pronyma belongs to her creators over at Namco, and the same goes for the rest of the Tales of Symphonia personages mentioned herein. The woman named in the title, Jocasta, is a character in the ancient Greek myth of Oedipus.

**Sabe's Scribbles: **Although an older piece, Pronyma's an impatient muse to leave waiting… I hope you enjoyed this look at what might have been going through her thoughts; I know I for one found her an interesting woman to write for…

Comments are always appreciated; in the meanwhile, Cheers!


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